I got into a conversation with an older white man the other day in a church fellowship hall. We were there as part of a group working for racial justice and equity. He told me that he was recently on a plane home and struck up a conversation with the young Black man seated next to him. It turned out that they lived only a few miles apart. When the plane landed, the older guy invited him to his house to play pickleball.

Pickleball?!

I admit that I have made fun of this sport. The small court, the dinky paddle, that ridiculous name. Not to mention the preponderance of gray-haired folks who sing the game’s praises until they sprain an ankle or worse. Orthopedic surgeons have never had greater job security.

“Pickleball is a blessing,” the guy solemnly swore. He seemed like a reasonable guy, not one to drink the Pickle-Aid.

But really, pickleball?!

The fact was that this seemingly silly sport brought two men together across generational and racial divisions, overcoming barriers that more venerable, perhaps socially esteemed activities (like church) had failed to do. The proof was in the (pickle) pudding.

I reached out to my fellow pastor at the historically Black church where our group met. He and I met the other young man at our new friend’s house for doubles.

I have a lot to learn. I need to study up on the non-volley zone and learn what constitutes a foot fault. There are dinks and drops, punches and slammers — all in fun, of course! There are kitchens, falafel and flapjacks, but no eating on the court. Volley llamas are illegal. Too bad. I’d like to meet one.

I realize that I have my blind spots and assumptions based on my own experiences, which leaves me prejudiced against more than just pickleball. I am committed to cross-cultural dialogue and intentional conversations about race.

Yet, I’m so tired of all the hand-wringing at book studies. I know there are problems in my community. I want to do something! Maybe you do too.

So, pick up a paddle (it’s not called a racquet). Don’t judge the noise, even though it sounds like Wiffle balls are mating. I can testify that I had fun, didn’t tear my ACL and made new friends. Pickleball is a blessing. Amen.

Andrew Taylor-Troutman is the author of “Little Big Moments,” a collection of mini-essays about parenting, and “Tigers, Mice & Strawberries: Poems.” Both titles are available most anywhere books are sold online. Taylor-Troutman lives in Chapel Hill where he serves as pastor of Chapel in the Pines Presbyterian Church and occasionally stumbles upon the wondrous while in search of his next cup of coffee.

 

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